


For a Fallen Brother

by SilvertonguedClotpole



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: 4x02, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Episode Related, Episode: s04e01-02 The Darkest Hour, Grief/Mourning, Missing Scene, The Darkest Hour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-01
Updated: 2015-11-01
Packaged: 2018-04-29 11:41:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5126210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilvertonguedClotpole/pseuds/SilvertonguedClotpole
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Missing scene: Once Lancelot steps into the veil, sacrificing himself, Merlin is left to deal with grief, anger and guilt. It is only later the Knights find him and too share his sorrow, along with their own at watching Merlin so lost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For a Fallen Brother

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, yet another short fic I had to get out. I'm still angry I'm not working on my big(ish) idea I've been wanting to write for ages but at least I'm writing something. Just a missing scene for 4x02 The Darkest Hour Part 2, and an excuse for me to throw around some angst (my bad, sorry).
> 
> As per usual, no beta so any mistakes my own, I don't own Merlin and I hope you enjoy, with my questionable writing skills.

Merlin had circled the alter, had watched as the Cailleach mirrored him, her emotionless face sending shudders down his spine and a jolt to his heart. He had not wanted to leave this world yet, did not want to leave Arthur at such a time when his father suffered as he did and Morgana was still at large. But he had always known he would give his life to save Arthur's, and to save Camelot, and if the time was not right he was sure the fates would have found a way to bring him back, to make everything right once again.

"Perhaps..." The woman had paused, her eyes shining with malice, not toward him but to the world and her role in its life. She had held sadness, whether it be to Merlin or the many souls she had seen pass, had _felt_ pass and would feel for centuries to come. And then she had continued. "...But your time amongst men is not yet over Emrys, even if you want it to be."

It was as if she had seen into his soul and felt all he felt and what would soon come to pass, for her grief seemed to shine brighter as she turned her gaze to the veil's tear. Merlin had followed the movement, unsure if this was some trick but feeling a pull he could not ignore. The sorcerer had frozen. In shock. In grief. In fear. In disgrace. Disgrace because he had never wanted this, he had led his friend to this fate and it was not meant for him, so very far from it. His words from days before about honour and duty rang out in his mind. _I subconsciously pushed him toward this, I persuaded and steered his mind to this choice._

Perhaps if he hadn't have frozen, if he had snapped himself out of his shock and thoughts he could have saved the knight, could have thrown him away as he had Arthur. But instead he was a fool and watched as his best friend walked into oblivion.

For minutes he had stood on the same spot he now still stood, just staring as the tear grew smaller and fell away to nothing. There was no flash or destructive crumble as he had expected, it had burned away like the dregs of a candle at midnight, withering down to the wick and gently easing away into the air. Beside him the Cailleach had nodded a silent farewell, and too turned into the night, as if she had never been there at all.

He felt a similar sensation to when the veil had opened, but it was nowhere near as strong as before, and this time Lancelot's steadfast arms were not there to carry his trembling form to Gaius' chambers. The screams of the dead stopped, the coldness of the air that was much more biting than the weather could ever produce also died to become a more familiar and cool night, and a fog that had seemed to follow them seeped away to reveal the stars and the moon. But he barely registered these, he didn't even glance at the moon as he usually did, gazing at its wonder, for his eyes were still transfixed on the spot his friend had vanished into moments before.

Merlin's chest heaved as he tried to breath, the grip of grief constricting his lungs so there was nothing, no space to fill with the air that had stung earlier that day. Now they stung for an entirely different reason, as did the tears that welled up in his eyes, and the guilt that gnawed in his stomach. _I should have stopped him._

For a moment everything was silent. Merlin's cries did not come. Arthur, still unconscious, did not yell in anger. Neither did Gwaine; there was no rage or even light-hearted comment on the Knight's bravery to relieve tension. No wind howled around the ruins either. No birds had awoken from the disturbance and sang out, not even a crow that usually found refuge in such places of magic and decay. Merlin, an all powerful sorcerer, slid down the side of the alter, his back and head slamming into the stone as punishment and in complete silence, with the knowledge there was absolutely nothing he could do.

And then.

He screamed. He screamed and he screamed and he screamed. And when he did he could feel the magic within him fly out around him. It was a wave of pure energy blasting through the vast room and if there had been men standing, or fires burning, or even trees threatening to shed their leaves then they would have all fallen, all blown away as easy as a candle's light. He thought he could even feel the walls tremble in fear. The guttural scream tore his throat apart, and he only stopped when his voice betrayed him, no longer able to cry out. Instead he curled in on himself, head bent on his knees and arms hugging his trembling body. To any onlookers, the silent cries may have been worse than the scream, a voiceless grief far surpassing anger. Lancelot was one of his closest brothers, maybe even his closest with his knowledge of the younger man's magic. It had been he who brought the Knight to Camelot, they had shown Arthur what he was capable of and ultimately been rewarded with a life he deserved, and together they shared that. As brothers in arms.

A part of Merlin knew that Lancelot, along with Gwaine, cared for him as he did Arthur. And that Gwen too always asked them to care for her King when she could not. It had been these duties, these responsibilities that had gnawed away at the Knight as they did Merlin and, in due course, proved to be his undoing. Though, could you call sacrifice an undoing? No, certainly not. It had _proved_ his bravery and loyalty, whether it truly be for Arthur, Gwen _or_ Merlin.

As the ringing in his ears ceased he found himself lost in his grief. He no longer saw the walls in front of him, no longer felt the cold stone digging into his back, or the air as it cooled slightly. Merlin was lost. He fell out of touch with reality, with everything around him, for it was the closest he could come to not feeling.

XX

The Knights knew things had changed. They knew it was over. It wasn't just that the phantoms disappeared or their piercing screams ceased, it was in the air, it felt _lighter_ somehow, even if their hearts grew much heavier. This could mean one thing, their Prince- no! In their hearts he was already their King- was most likely dead. The words hadn't been spoken out loud, but they knew that the answer was sacrifice, and Arthur being the chivalrous man he was would have walked into it without a second thought. Sometimes they hated his bravery and self sacrifice, however precious the qualities actually were.

Just moments before, right after the coldness had vanished, a rumble, not dissimilar to that of thunder, had spread around the ruins. It had reached out into the night and echoed around the walls, like a ghost in itself, mysterious and polluting the peace the building should have held. The wyverns, that had previously been on top of the Knights, almost ran from it as it chased them, like a warning or command only they could understand. Maybe it was the veil collapsing and their jobs done? Maybe it was something much more powerful scaring them away? However, and whatever it was, they left, leaving the men panting for breath and checking one another for injuries.

All clear.

Elyan, Percival and Leon made their way to the hall they had seen their friends enter earlier that evening. In truth it had been less than a short hour ago but it seemed like so much more. When their eyes adjusted to the somehow dimmer light they quickly fell on two prone figures. One was Gwaine. And the other was their Prince.

"You check Gwaine." Leon's voice boomed as he began running toward Arthur, the other Knights reacting just as instinctively.

Together Elyan and Percival made their way to the boisterous Knight. It was true he could be a ladies man, drink too much, and act without thought, but he was a far better man than most, and deserved much more respect for his loyalty, his devotion to his friends and the kingdom, and his clever mind- even if it did not always show itself in the best of lights. Percival scanned the area as Elyan rolled the knight to get a better look. There were no visible injuries, only a small graze on his head and a slight bruise to accompany it. He was about to question concussion when a flutter of the man's eyes, and some grumble alerted him to Gwaine's attempt at consciousness, and humour, supposedly.

"W's'it alwes me hu's thwn 'cross rums?" He mumbled, not much different to his drunken slur.

"Say that again, I didn't quite get it. Must be the stupid accent." Elyan laughed, and he heard Percival hold back a snort of his own.

The Knight slowly sat up holding his head. "I said..." He had come round quickly, face not pale at all and a smile lighting up his features. "Why is it always me who's thrown across rooms?"

"Think you piss people off." Percival deadpanned.

"I bet it's the talking." Elyan offered as he looked up toward Percival, and the tall Knight nodded along in agreement.

The three laughed until they realised they weren't the only people in the room. They all looked to Leon and, together, asked after Arthur.

"I'm ok." Came the response, even though the darkness and distance made it hard to actually see the man. "And I agree. Maybe if you didn't talk so much nonsense Gwaine."

"Charming." As one the trio stood up, with Gwaine and Elyan walking over to Leon and Arthur, seeing that he too had similar cuts and bruises. "So why'd she throw you then? Huh?"

"No idea. I was..." He stopped, his head snapping to where the veil had been before his own unconsciousness. The woman had gone, as had the tear, but there was also more missing. It was a split second later that Percival, who had silently been scouting the area, yelled.

"Over here!"

The large Knight knelt down to the side of the alter, his large frame swallowing the smaller one he looked down upon. The other men's hearts dropped. _No, this could not be._ Merlin must have got in the way too, his own determination landing him in trouble. The Cailleach had killed him for it though, a lowly servant, an annoying rat. But when Percival's hand reached forward and stroked a tear from the motionless man's cheek, the group realised that Merlin was not dead, he was very much alive, and staring off with grief written across his features.

The smaller figure was truly motionless, and scarily similar in behaviour to the day before after the Dorocha attack. At least Arthur's heart, and no doubt the rest of the Knights', stopped, full of worry and devastation that something had gone wrong and Merlin hadn't healed at all, and that this was him reverting once again to the spirit's victim, turning into that horrendous, frozen corpse. His body was rigid and his eyes were distant, at times almost completely vacant. There were traces of tears on his face, water still lingering dangerously close to the edge of his eyes. Something had happened, had gone wrong, and in that moment all panic was once again focused on their friend.

No-one dared speak first, they only looked him up and down, checking for injuries or signs of illness.

A heartbeat. And then.

"Where's Lancelot?"

It was Gwaine who had spoken, who had noticed that the final piece in their group was missing. His hair flew around him as he looked around the room.

They all looked to one another, fear gripping them. And then they turned their attention to Merlin a second, or was it third, time. His face was deathly pale save for the redness around his eyes and nose. It was now clear he had been crying viciously and his body still trembled gently. He continued to hug his knees tightly to his chest and his sight truly did stretch far beyond the columns of the ruin. He was lost in himself, lost in his grief.

"The sacrifice." Elyan's voice was low, barely a whisper as he continued to stare at Merlin. And just like that, the man was now a boy, broken and fragile, so small as he cowered next to the huge stone alter. Their hearts broke one by one, first for their fallen comrade, their fallen brother and then a second time for Merlin. It was his first real death. Or at least that they had seen: Arthur had once mentioned some lad named Will that Merlin had been close to, but beyond _"An old friend of his got caught in the crossfire"_ he hadn't said much. This was them witnessing him losing someone dearly close. And they hated it. There was just _so much_ to hate about the situation. The fact that they had lost Lancelot, and their grief was only held back with the shock that overpowered it, and that they had not had a chance to say goodbye. Each one of them tried to think over what their last words had been, or how long ago they had shown pride or affection to the man. They wanted to hit something, to punish the person that had done this but there was no-one to do so to, the Cailleach was but a pawn, maybe a less than innocent pawn but one all the same, and Morgana was nowhere to be found. It would have been a stupid venture to go after her anyway, but in this moment they felt enough anger and adrenaline to take her down, or at least fall down trying, damn the consequences. They were outraged that this had happened to Merlin, that he had had to be the one to witness it, with no way of helping or stopping it. He was just a manservant for heaven's sake, he wasn't even meant to be on dangerous missions like this but still he came and this time he had been thrown right into the middle of it more than once.

"Merlin I..." Gwaine spoke softer than any had ever heard him. There was a pity, a compassion they had never seen so powerful from the Knight before. They all knew that, next to Lancelot, Gwaine was his closest friend. The two shared more and had more history, there was a resilient bond. But in that moment Gwaine was just as lost as Merlin. They all were. They had no idea what to say, what to do.

Shock was fading now, as was the anger, and their own grief was mixing with the horror they saw in Merlin's features and slowly the tears began to well up. Not many fell, they were private funerals of the mind, silent farewells. At least they had the chance, for many times the men had been forced to fight on, put their grief behind them, use it as a weapon, as they moved on from a fallen soldier mid war. No. Now there was no more fight, nothing to do but contemplate and mourn.

After a few moments, Gwaine tried again. Gently, almost as if not to spook Merlin, he moved forward, beginning to bend onto his knees, hand already half outstretched to grasp his friend's shoulder. But the man moved so suddenly they all reeled back slightly. It was almost like a flash of light, a crack of a whip, for the long limbs stretched to their full length, even if the back was bent and the head low, and strode off, away from the group. Merlin didn't make it very far. He put enough distance between them to not have to face them, to hide himself for just a few minutes more. His legs stopped walking and his arms once again hugged his body, the fingers grasping the material of his coat around his waist, turning the knuckles white almost instantly. The paleness of his neck stood out around his blue scarf as his head dipped lower than humanly possible. Arthur, Gwaine, Elyan, Leon and Percival watched as his shoulders trembled and his hands clenched even more. They heard the occasional whimper as he tried to hide his tears.

It was Elyan this time that started forward, his intent to get comfort together, let Merlin cry onto his shoulder as he too let the mad grief wash out. But Arthur grabbed him back, a hand tugging his elbow back and a firm shake of the head. If not for the tears in his own eyes, the shake would have been commanding, superior.

"Leave him. Just...just give him space." The Prince's voice never rose above a whisper and yet it was still imposing and heavy with authority.

It was not missed that Arthur's tearful eyes never left the figure of his manservant.

It was silently questioned whether the tears were for Lancelot or for seeing such anguish within Merlin.

It was never said aloud though. Never mentioned.

So, against all their inner intuition, they turned their backs and set up camp for the remainder of the night. There wasn't much to go by, no logs for fires, no animals for food. Just a cold floor, the cover of their cloaks alone to keep them warm and the demons in their mind to keep them occupied. Many laid awake thinking of their memories of Lancelot. Praying for him and sending their own goodbye's and hopes for his soul.

And if they heard Merlin finally let the sobs out, finally fall to the floor and cry out loud, and with a worryingly raw voice that could only come from screams they (luckily) hadn't witnessed, none of them mentioned it. Not then, not ever.

Curse them who did this. Curse them for leading Lancelot to this fate, to his death. And curse them for taking Merlin on the journey of sorrow.

The day was dawning when shuffled feet finally made their way to the group and sniffles replaced the constant, quiet, lamentation. The Prince's eyes watched as Merlin collected Lancelot's pack, unrolled his Pendragon cloak and blanketed himself with it in the hopes that sleep would bestow some peace for at least a short while, before having to face the world again. He never looked to the knights around him, not once letting his eyes venture up from the floor. If it had been any other situation he would have laughed at how Merlin's bottom lip jutted out, and how much like a kicked puppy he was making himself seem, but right now he wanted nothing more that to take the pain away and make everything right.

_Would he have grieved like this for me? For his aggravating master?_

His subconscious mind provided a response. A small sad voice, very similar to Merlin's whispered, _Of course Clotpole. You even question that!?_

Arthur, looking in turn to each of his Knights, knew that this would be a huge blow to them all, and to those waiting back in Camelot. He knew that Sir Lancelot would be told about in legends to come for year and years, for he would be the one to start them, and Merlin being Merlin would be the one to carry them on, to give them character and life.

The group all feigned sleep. None of them slept and only closed their eyes for show and privacy, and to be with their own thoughts. The night no longer howled with spirits or screams of victims, it no longer held a scarily still pause in between attacks where every living creature, human, rat, raven, had fallen silent. Insects were beginning to chirp again, birds sang out when dawn began to break and distant leaves and twigs snapped as deer and foxes finally left the safety of their homes. It felt full of life again, like the sun would come out in a short while and everything would be fine.

In time this would be true. Give or take a few weeks and the sun would shine on Camelot again and all would be well, but for now there would be a heavy cloud above them. Atlas would be carrying some very heavy hearts once more.

Arthur took one final look before closing his own eyes to pray to the Gods for Lancelot's safe passage. When his gaze fell on his manservant he saw the raw and broken man that Merlin was in that moment. And he vowed to never see such a thing again.

"To Sir Lancelot."

Though he had barely whispered the salute, the silence and the wind carried it and one after one the Knights repeated his words.

After a few seconds, the smallest, roughest, and most broken voice too spoke out.

"To Sir Lancelot."

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. x


End file.
